


The Art of Thinking Loudly

by irisbleufic



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, England (Country), M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You look familiar," says Angel. "You've been on the news a lot."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"As have you, no doubt," Sherlock replies. "But if you have, I confess I've missed it."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Thinking Loudly

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2010.

Three trains, one cab, and five hours later, they're in the middle of a squelchy, unpleasant field—which itself is in the middle of _nowhere_. As it happens, the locals insist that this particular patch of nowhere is called Sandford, Gloucestershire.  
  
"What d'you make of it, Detective?" asks the policewoman.  
  
Sherlock frowns at the vivisected swan and resists the urge to kick it. For his part, he's been brought out here on a complete lark. Murder? _Hardly_. It's especially elaborate poaching if it must be called anything at all. A warning? Not likely.  
  
"Who was in charge of the bird's well-being?" he asks, and John starts coughing into his sleeve almost immediately. They've grown reasonably skilled at disguising impolitic laughter, and Sherlock isn't even certain this counts as a crime-scene.  
  
The locals, however, are pretty damned certain.  
  
"I am," says the aggrieved man in glasses. "Was."  
  
_Ah, yes,_ Sherlock thinks. Peter Ian Staker. How can you have a name like that and take yourself seriously? Sherlock is aware that his own name borders on outright ridiculous, thank you, and should hope he doesn't take himself as seriously as Mr. Staker seems to take _everything_. The late swan especially. Avian fetish?  
  
"And you say it went missing approximately thirty-six hours ago?"  
  
Mr. Staker nods miserably. "Yes. Give or take."  
  
"Fine," Sherlock says, dropping down to inspect what's left of the entrails. The animal's been dead for about twelve hours, so there's no use in suggesting a trial-run one of those strange medieval bird-roast recipes he'd come across on the internet.  
  
"It's _not_ fine," says the woman, whose name, Sherlock suddenly recalls, is Doris. "It's horrible. Just you wait till the Inspector gets here. He'll tell you."  
  
Fortunately, it's not a long wait, because John is starting to look chilly and annoyed, and Sherlock has already concluded that this is either a juvenile prank or the result of some petty feud. This village has plenty of potential for both, as far as he's concerned.  
  
Then again, there _were_ the murders back in 2007. Lestrade had said something about the transferred London officer involved in the whole mess having been a real loss to the force, but Sherlock had never met the man, and thus hadn't spent much time worrying about the boots he was apparently filling (and then some).  
  
As it also turns out, the Inspector _is_ that officer. He arrives in a patrol car that looks like it's seen better days, probably because driving across muddy fields is all the use it ever gets. The man with him, dark-haired and sturdier in build, sticks close by his side. They exchange looks and body language even an idiot couldn't miss.  
  
"All the rage, isn't it?" John says under his breath.  
  
It's Sherlock's turn to press the back of his gloved hand hard to his lips.  
  
Inspector Nicholas Angel is every inch the professional, Sherlock will give him that. He knows how _not_ to contaminate evidence, and he even knows what to look for. He's on his feet again in seconds, regarding Mr. Staker with a look of genuine pity.  
  
"We'll never chase him again," says the dark-haired officer, sadly, removing his hat as he stands over the swan. "Won't ever be the same, will it? The geese just stay put."  
  
Doris has an arm around him, patting his shoulder. She's similarly distraught.  
  
"There, there, Danny," she says. "Stiff upper lip and all that."  
  
John's wearing the same look as when he'd found the freezer full of pig embryos.  
  
Sherlock turns to Inspector Angel, who's been staring at him for roughly a minute.  
  
"You look familiar," says Angel. "You've been on the news a lot."  
  
"As have you, no doubt," Sherlock replies. "But if you have, I confess I've missed it."  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," Angel continues. "I had a catch-up email from Lestrade. A friend we have in common, it would seem. He's the one who suggested Mr. Staker call you down here." Angel lowers his voice. "He's very upset, and understandably paranoid, but, for my part, this has got less to do with someone wanting him dead and everything to do with zoning laws and his refusal to sell a piece of land."  
  
"Right," Sherlock says, suddenly infuriated that his lack of knowledge regarding local politics had prevented him from seeing that _precisely_. "Heaven knows this place is no stranger to bizarre feuds. You used to live in London. Tell me, how can you stand it?"  
  
Angel's stern features crinkle unabashedly with laughter. He doesn't even attempt to hide it, and the other bystanders don't seem offended, either. As it is, they're mourning the swan and comforting each other. It's the oddest thing Sherlock has ever seen, but now John's talking to Doris and Danny and Mr. Staker, and even though two of the three are still kind of misty-eyed, they're all smiling. More or less.  
  
"It's worth it," Angel says. "Some things just are."  
  
Just then, John catches Sherlock's eye. He's laughing openly now, too.  
  
"Perhaps," Sherlock says. He'll kiss John later, when they're alone, and crowd out the cold. Press his open mouth to John's belly, tongue him lightly till he comes.  
  
He doesn't smile, not really, but Angel can read him just as easily as Sherlock can read some strange, familiar future in the lines of Angel's once-stern, softened face.


End file.
